A Surprising Substitution
by HaloFin17
Summary: Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership or profit on my part, never fear.

**Author's Note: **Just a fun idea that I couldn't ignore. Again, the events of this short story are in no way connected to my earlier Sympathy Series, but it is my intention that Mikael's character and background remain the same as portrayed previously. Thanks for reading!

**A Surprising Substitution**

**Chapter 1**

"Hey, Mikael?"

Gunnar Stahl knocked softly on the door of his brother's hotel room only after the door was already open. That's what Mikael got for handing out the room's extra key; that's what he got for coming to Los Angeles, period. But the long, dark lump on the bed didn't stir at the disturbance.

The captain of Iceland's hockey team stepped further into the room, motioning for his longtime friend and teammate Olaf Sanderson to follow. They each took a seat on opposite sides of the bed, sharing an incredulous look when even that didn't wake the elder Stahl.

"Mikael, wake up." Gunnar shook his sibling by the shoulder. "Come on now, wake up!"

"What? What's going on?" Mikael's voice sounded like it had been dragged across a mile of gravel. He raised his head long enough to catch a glimpse of the clock and then groaned, clenching his eyes shut again. It was four o'clock in the morning. "Damn it, you guys…I've only been asleep a couple of hours. I am _so _jetlagged."

Granted, there was a nine-hour time difference between California and Germany, but Olaf still challenged that declaration. "Really, are you sure? Or were you just out too late last night?"

There was a pause before the answer grudgingly came. "Both. Now leave me alone so I can sleep."

"Hey, hey, don't fall back to sleep yet." Gunnar jostled him again to prevent it. "Mikael, will you coach us in the Championship this weekend?"

His brother's blue eyes cracked open again. "Huh?"

"Coach is in the hospital right now," Olaf began to explain. "He needs emergency surgery to have his appendix or his gall bladder removed…something like that. At any rate, he won't be recovered in time for the Championship, and he won't let the doctors put him under until 'substitute coaching arrangements' have been made."

"Uh huh. And which of you two idiots volunteered me for the job?"

"Neither of us; he knew you were here and thought of you all on his own. Don't you feel special?" Gunnar reached out to ruffle his brother's already-disheveled hair and very nearly got a finger broken to reward his efforts.

"Go away!" The besieged Icelander pulled an extra pillow over top of his head, trying to shut out the intruders.

"Just say 'yes', and we'll be gone," Sanderson promised him. "That's all there is to it. It'll be fun, you bossing us around all over the place; just like old times. Come on, don't be such a grouch."

Mikael's face reemerged with a scowl. "Listen, Einstein – the Championship is _tomorrow night_. I just got here. I don't know anything about your competition, and I don't even know half the players on your team."

"So what? That's more than anyone else knows! As for the competition, Marria's been going with Coach to scout out the American team all week; I'm sure she'll be happy to tell you everything she knows."

"Then why doesn't she just take over coaching for a couple of days?"

Gunnar stepped in now. "Because even though she's smart and she's a good trainer, she's not a hockey player at heart."

"Well, technically, I'm not a hockey player either," Mikael pointed out with a wide yawn.

"Not anymore, maybe, but you still know the game inside and out. You're like our only hope."

"Oh, shut up! Don't you dare go all Star Wars on me."

"Come on, Mikael," Gunnar persisted. "We really do need you, and it's only for one match. Please? Don't make me make Olaf beg."

The older Stahl brother groaned again, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "How many team practices do you guys have left between now and the Championship?"

"Just our last one," his sibling supplied. "It's scheduled for this morning…at six thirty."

"Not if I'm coaching, it's not." Mikael heaved a deep sigh, defeated at last. "All right, all right, fine. You get today's practice pushed out to a _significantly _later time, and I'll do it."

Both teenagers jumped up, exulting in their success. "Awesome, thank you! Coach will be able to rest in peace knowing you've taken charge of the situation."

"Olaf, he's not dying," reprimanded Gunnar.

"He might be; you never know."

"And I want film, too!" their reluctant new coach called after them. "Of your games and theirs, as many as you can find."

"Okay, sure, no problem," his brother placated him. "You can go back to sleep now, Mikael, we're leaving. Sorry to bother you!"

Mikael just huffed. "Yeah, right." He punched his innocent pillow a few times for good measure, then rolled over and strove to forget that the past ten minutes had ever occurred.

* * *

><p>Two young Icelandic hockey players burst into a hospital room occupied by a pained Wolf Stansson, an anxious Marria, and a couple of impatient doctors.<p>

"I told you we could convince him!" Olaf announced jubilantly. "He says he'll do it."

"Just like that?" Marria eyed the team's star forwards warily, distrusting the apparent ease of their endeavor.

"Well, he does have a couple of demands," Gunnar acknowledged.

"Of course, he does." Stansson sighed, shaking his head and grimacing.

"First of all, today's early morning practice needs to be rescheduled."

"Fine, fine," the former NHL player acquiesced. "You all could use a little more sleep after this, anyway."

Olaf continued, "And secondly, he wants game tapes to study."

"Tell him to stop by the referees' office, down the hall from my own. They've got film, roster listings, anything he'll need."

"Yeah, we'd better find him some skates, too," Gunnar mused. "Practice won't go over too well if he doesn't have any."

"I'll go see what times are still open for the practice rink this afternoon," Marria volunteered. "You boys go back to your dorm now and get some rest. Your old coach won't be needing our company anymore today."

* * *

><p>Coach Gordon Bombay clapped his hands to secure the attention of his players at their team meeting Friday morning.<p>

"All right, guys, there's been…an interesting development that took place overnight. Apparently there is some sort of karma at work in the world, because Wolf Stansson went in for an emergency surgery a few hours ago. I've been told everything went well, but now he won't be available to coach in tomorrow night's Championship."

His announcement was met with a mixture of laughter and shameless cheers; hardly an appropriate response, perhaps, but Gordon could hardly blame the kids.

"They'll have to forfeit without a coach, right?" Goldberg deduced excitedly. "Please say they have to forfeit, so I won't have to be their dummy for target practice again!"

"Actually, they kind of got lucky on this. It turns out Gunnar Stahl's older brother showed up here in L.A. yesterday, and he's going to be their substitute coach."

"But can they do that?" Adam Banks frowned, perplexed, as his teammates murmured amongst themselves about the news. "I mean, is the guy even qualified to coach at this level? _My_ brother sure wouldn't be."

"Yeah, mine neither," Russ Tyler concurred. It was still an amusing thought for him to consider, though.

Bombay shrugged. "All I know is that he used to play for Stansson back in the day, so he's got Wolf's full vote of confidence."

"Oh great," Ken Wu muttered. "So in other words, we shouldn't expect any change from them at all."

* * *

><p>Team USA played with their beach ball later that afternoon, blissfully unaware of the audience they had just gained.<p>

"Looks like we still have a scheduling conflict here," commented Gustav Uberjavik from where he stood with his teammates, looking in on a surprisingly occupied practice rink.

Marria was more than a little defensive. "They assured me it would be free now."

"Well, it wouldn't be a problem at all if _someone _hadn't needed to sleep in late," Olaf snickered.

"Hey," protested Mikael, "you know you all enjoyed the extra sleep, too. But it's all right, I'm sure we can work something out here. You guys do laps at this end to start warming up, and I'll go talk to them."

His players, accustomed as they were to being confrontational at every opportunity, met his words with resistance.

"Go on, skate!" he reiterated, shooing them out onto the ice ahead of him.

Their obedience was reticent, at best; and as the Vikings appeared, Team USA could no longer ignore their presence. Watching apprehensively as their bitter rivals skated half-laps, the Americans mustered together in a group on the opposite end of the ice. When he skated past the abandoned beach ball, Mikael used his hockey stick to toss it up in the air, then caught it one-handed. He pitched it easily back into Bombay's arms once the two of them had met close together in the middle of the rink.

Behind them, Connie nudged Julie with her elbow, remarking, "Hey look, it's an attractive Icelander who actually knows how to smile without looking mean; I didn't realize such a thing existed. That must be Gunnar's brother. How old do you think he is?"

"He's got to be at least eighteen, otherwise I don't think they'd let him coach," her teammate whispered back. "But he looks more like he's in his early twenties, if you ask me. Much too old for us, I'm sure, so don't be getting any funny ideas."

"Coach Bombay?"

"That's right." Gordon reached out to shake the younger man's hand, caught a bit off guard by the other's relaxed, friendly demeanor. "Coach Stahl, I'm guessing?"

The Icelander shook his head, chuckling a little. "No, not Coach – just Mikael."

"Nice to meet you, Mikael. So…it looks like we've got kind of an issue here with the ice time."

"Have you been here long?"

"No, just a few minutes."

Mikael sent a conspicuous glance back at the clustered American players, all of whom were dressed in casual street clothes. "Since you don't seem to be working on anything too critical, why don't we split the ice for another twenty minutes or so? That will be long enough for us to warm up without getting into any specific preparations for the game."

Gordon nodded in agreement. "Yeah, sure, that sounds fair enough. We'll get out of here in about fifteen minutes."

"Thank you. Although, you should still be careful with your beach ball. I cannot guarantee its safety if it comes over on our side again."

Mikael then returned to his players, choosing to join them in the remainder of their laps. It was the universal privilege of coaches to gloat from afar while forcing hard, tedious labor on their teams, but Mikael Stahl was still too accustomed to being a player himself to stand aside. More importantly, he simply loved being on the ice and relished every opportunity to skate – opportunities that had decreased drastically in recent years.

Olaf quickly caught up to him, looking disgusted. "Did you really just go and be all friendly with them?"

"Why not? Look at them; they already know they hate you guys. No sense adding fuel to the fire at this point. And who knows? If we play nice for a little bit, maybe it'll lull them into a false sense of security."

"Or maybe they'll just laugh at us, using only half a rink," grumbled Amssalik from behind.

Mikael turned around to face him, now skating backward. "Grow up, it's only for a few minutes; then they'll be out of here. Besides, they won't be laughing tomorrow night when they have to settle for a silver medal."

Meanwhile, the American players were equally skeptical about the arrangement.

"What, we're just gonna like…share the ice with them?" Portman made it sound as though stepping barefoot on a cactus would have been preferable.

"Hey, we should consider ourselves fortunate," Bombay countered rather sternly. "Can you imagine how badly this whole situation might have ended if Stansson had been here instead?"

The beach ball games eventually did resume, although with hardly the same volume or gusto as before. Frankly, it seemed as though Team USA was relieved to step off the ice when the time came; the Vikings experienced a similar relief, albeit for entirely different reasons.

For the bulk of their practice, Mikael had each player go at the goalie individually, with himself as the lone defender. There was simply no way he could pass up this perfect opportunity to hit the lot of them. Their instructions were to knock him down and then advance the puck to attempt a goal – if they could get past him.

A task easier said than done, as Mikael's exceptional skating allowed him to make adjustments going backward as fast as the younger boys could skating forward. He also gave them tips on maintaining balance through contact, after the vast majority ended up sprawled flat on ice themselves. Gunnar managed to stay upright past his brother, yet he still lost control of the puck in the process. Only Olaf, the biggest and most aggressive player on the team, was able to successfully knock their new coach off his skates.

"And that's how you do it," Mikael laughed as Weyden offered him a hand up.

Sanderson smiled wryly down at him. "That's also payback for all the bruises you've given me in the past."

Off to one side, Gustav sidled up next to his team captain. "It looks like your brother hasn't lost his edge over the years. Are you sure he doesn't play hockey anymore?"

Gunnar found it difficult not to let a little pride slip into his voice as he replied, "That's what he keeps saying…but I'm starting to think he still has some way of sneaking in a quick hockey fix every now and then."

**Author's End Note: **Coming up next, Olaf gets his hands on Mikael's credit card, and some individuals stay up a little too late studying the competition. Until then!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership or profit on my part, never fear.

**A Surprising Substitution**

**Chapter 2**

After practice, Mikael spent about half an hour with Marria to discuss the strategies Stansson had planned for how to attack special USA weapons such as the Flying V and the knuckle-puck. The players themselves were already well acquainted with the plans and eager to execute them. Then it was time to camp out in Wolf's office for a long night of film study; Gunnar and Gustav both volunteered to keep him company and offer their insights over the coming hours.

The elder Stahl walked in carrying a stack of tapes that nearly reached up to his chin; however, in spite of his discoveries, he did not look pleased. "They've got every damn tape in there except the one of your first game against Team USA. I practically tore that room apart, and I still couldn't find it."

"The Americans probably stole it or even hid it just to spite you," Gustav voiced his thoughts on the matter.

At that moment, Sanderson stuck his blonde head in the door. "Hey, what are you guys doing for dinner?"

"Ugh, that's right," his young coach lamented. "I suppose we do still need to eat. Olaf, why don't you make yourself useful and go grab us something?"

"Okay, sure. What do you all want?"

"I don't care, just try to find something interesting. And get a lot, I'm starving!" Mikael handed his credit card to Olaf, who took off without another word.

Gustav frowned deeply as he observed their exchange. "That…might not have been smart."

Mikael shrugged, grinning mischievously. "Don't worry. Whatever he buys, I'll just tell Wolf to reimburse me later."

"And I'm sure Coach will love that," Gunnar contributed with a roll of his blue eyes.

Their teammate returned almost an hour later, bearing multiple bags of –

"Chinese food?" Gustav looked disappointed. "I thought you were going to be creative."

Olaf threw a fortune cookie at his head. "Not quite Chinese. This is Vietnamese, which should be a little different."

It was indeed. Sanderson had ordered a sampling of pretty much every dish on the menu, and everyone found something (if not multiple somethings) to suit their liking.

"Nicely done, Olaf, I have to admit," Mikael congratulated him. "This was a first for all of us, and it is very good. Now if I could have my credit card back, please?"

Olaf pretended to think about it before handing the card over. "I was hoping you'd never ask."

Meanwhile, Gustav opened the fortune cookie that had hit him on the head and promptly crumpled up the little slip of paper inside, disgusted. "Did anybody get a fortune promising some kind of great victory tomorrow? If so, I might actually start believing in them."

They collectively ransacked every cookie available, although none yielded what would be considered a satisfactory or applicable fortune. Once they settled back into watching more film, Olaf's short attention span soon drew him away to pass his evening elsewhere.

A couple of tapes later, Gunnar remarked, "Mikael, you're not really studying anything here; you're just watching the game. You're even fast-forwarding a lot of it."

"I'm looking for trends that might be useful; you guys didn't give me enough time to go into nit-picking details, remember."

"Yeah, but you agreed to it."

"Quit reminding me; I must not have been fully awake at the time. It is sad to think of how many other things I could be doing in Los Angeles right now on a Friday night."

"And your Saturday night's already spoken for, too." Gunnar peered over at his brother's notebook. "You haven't even written anything down yet."

"I haven't seen enough to find any trends yet. Just give it time – as much time as we have. And stop sounding like Mom pestering me to do my homework, or I'll kick you out of here."

Nevertheless, the notebook did start filling up over time, with observations such as the following:

The whole game dynamic in the Championship was bound to change with the enforcer Portman added back into the mix. Reed, the other "Bash Brother" didn't look like a strong skater despite his strong shooting; and Mendoza, while insanely fast, had obvious difficulty stopping. Banks was by far the Americans' best player, but Captain Conway still demonstrated occasional control issues when handling the puck. Unlike Robertson, who always appeared to be in masterful control; however, upon further study, even the cowboy's fancy moves started to take on more predictable patterns. Moreau and Germaine were perhaps the most dangerous scoring tandem on all of Team USA: agile, elusive, and ever on the same page.

"Our curfew is technically ten o'clock," Gustav spoke up when the hour struck. "Do you want us to go back to the dorms?"

Mikael waved him off, not concerned in the slightest. "How can they say you're violating curfew when you're helping your severely-overwhelmed coach prepare for a Championship match that's less than twenty-four hours away? Besides, we're only halfway through these tapes, and I specifically want your input on this next one."

Both boys groaned shamelessly as he then held up the tape of their game against the Russians. "So what happened here? We just saw that the Americans didn't have any real trouble with Russia. How'd you guys let this one get away from you?"

They exchanged dismal looks, Gustav answering, "We never really had it to begin with. They got ahead of us by a couple of goals early on, and then they played a tough defense for the rest of the game. We just couldn't catch back up."

"Was it a mental lapse? Like, were you guys already looking ahead to the Championship?"

"That was probably part of it," Gunnar admitted glumly. "Russia's players were all pretty big, but we still had the more talented team. It's just that no one had really challenged us at all up until that point, and we didn't see why Russia should be any different."

"I'm concerned that it's a more recent loss for you guys," Mikael went on. "The Americans suffered their one loss earlier in the tournament, and I'd say they've looked better and better ever since. That's exactly the type of trend you don't want to see in your opponent – especially if you're not sure which way your own team is heading."

His brother sighed wearily. "Don't worry, Coach has already lectured us about not underestimating the Americans. Are you done making us feel badly about ourselves now?"

"Of course not. We still have to actually watch the tape and make you relive every minute of your defeat."

And so they did.

When that game was over, Mikael glanced at his watch and cursed under his breath. "Okay, it's going on midnight. As much fun as this has been, you two had better head off to bed now and get your sleep for tomorrow. If anyone tries to give you a hard time about the whole curfew thing, just send them my way. I'm going to take a quick coffee break."

Gustav nodded and left at once, but Gunnar lingered behind.

"What, aren't you tired?" Mikael pressed him.

Gunnar shook his head. "If you're going to stay up and keep working, then I will too. You need the moral support anyway."

His brother looked at him suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine tomorrow. It's no problem."

"All right, then. I'll get coffee for both of us."

Deep down, both of them knew why Gunnar was really staying; they were also both unwilling to mention it aloud. It had been over a year since Mikael's last visit to Reykjavik, and Gunnar wasn't about to retreat off to bed now when he could be spending some rare quality time with his elusive sibling instead.

"Do you think we could clone you and Olaf before tomorrow night?" Mikael wondered out loud when they were alone with their coffee and back at work. "Don't tell your teammates I said this, but you two together are the best we've got on offense and defense. I'm still not sure where you're most valuable."

Gunnar fought not to pout. "Please don't put us on defense for too long; we want to score, which really is our strength playing together."

"All right, but be warned, you'll still be on defense at least part of the time. It'll depend on how the game's going. And why does everyone seem so opposed to the dirty work of defense? It's too bad I can't play with you guys as well as coach. Wouldn't that be fun?"

"Probably just for you, Mikael."

Almost two hours later, Gunnar finally nodded off in spite of all his best efforts to stay awake; he slept slumped over Wolf's desk, resting his head on his arms. His brother let him be. A soft rap on the door not long afterward made the young man look up from his notes on the Iceland/Germany match to see Coach Bombay standing in front of him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Gordon offered by way of greeting. "I just finished with this and realized you would probably want it, too." Then he held out the coveted tape of Team USA's first contest against the Vikings.

Mikael was instantly more alert. "Yes, thank you! I've been looking everywhere for that."

"You're welcome; I'm just sorry it came so late." Bombay chuckled to himself, now fully taking in the state of his counterpart's office. "You look like you're pulling an all-nighter here, trying to cram for final exams."

Mikael winced. "That's about right; these kids didn't exactly give me much of a choice. Late night for you too, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but at least mine is about over now. You've still got a couple hours ahead of you if you're going to make it through that game."

"It's all right, I've got plenty of 'moral support' here." He nodded at Gunnar. "Can't you tell?"

"Coffee not working for him?"

"That is partly my fault; I gave him decaf and told him it was regular." Mikael's gaze toward his sleeping sibling softened considerably. "I suppose I should put him to bed properly soon, so he isn't sore tomorrow."

"That would probably be wise, although my team would hardly complain if he was feeling less than perfect." Gordon changed topics. "So did you teach him everything he knows?"

"No, not me. Wolf has taught him the most, but I like to think I still had some part in making him such a promising player."

"And how are you adjusting to life as a coach?"

"It's pretty stressful, not to mention exhausting." Mikael paused, digging the heels of his palms into his tired eyes. "I mean, I played hockey for many years, and I love the sport. But I've never coached anything before in my life."

Bombay sent him an empathetic smile. "Coaching is a different animal altogether, that's for sure. Well, good night, and best of luck to you tomorrow."

Stahl nodded as his opponent stepped out of the room. "Thank you, and the same to you."

It didn't take quite as long as expected for Mikael to study this latest tape. He had been planning to watch that one twice if he ever found it, thinking it was the most relevant to tomorrow's Championship; but when he saw for himself how thoroughly one-sided that game had been, he realized there simply wasn't a need. Film from the other games had ultimately been more useful, especially the most recent ones.

Then it really was time to put both Gunnar and himself to bed. He hauled his brother upright, rousing him into a state of semi-consciousness long enough to guide him back to the dorm room he shared with Olaf.

"Come on," Mikael muttered in frustration when Gunnar kept stumbling along. "I gave you decaf coffee, not a sleeping potion. Look alive, little brother."

He let Gunnar collapse on the bed in a boneless heap when they finally arrived, then removed the teen's shoes. But that was the extent of it.

"If you want to get under the covers, you're on your own," he told his brother's inert form, sighing deeply.

He truly was so tired, his eyes so heavy; it would be at least a twenty-minute walk back to his hotel from here. Should he try to catch a cab at this time of night? But even if he left, he knew he'd just be back again in a few short hours.

"Oh, forget it." The dorm bed wasn't big by any stretch of the imagination, but Mikael was too exhausted to be picky. After nudging Gunnar more securely over to one side, he took off his own shoes and crawled into bed under the covers. Sleep came instantly.

* * *

><p>He awoke an undetermined number of hours later to the funny feeling of being watched. Squinting upward, Mikael beheld Olaf standing over him; the younger man was not quite grinning.<p>

"What?" he croaked out groggily.

"You two are adorable, you know that?"

Mikael just blinked for a moment, puzzled about what his friend might mean. Then he realized why it was so warm behind him. Gunnar, still asleep on top of the covers, had snuggled up close against his brother's back at some point during the night.

"Gunnar, get off me!"

Mikael made a sharp jab backward with his elbow, though the movement was restricted somewhat by the blankets. His retaliation didn't wake Gunnar, but it was enough to reestablish some distance between them.

"Maybe he wants to cuddle with you because he's cold," Olaf suggested flippantly. "If you were really a good brother, you'd have put him under the covers."

Dealing with Olaf's humor at this early hour put Mikael in a decidedly sour mood. "He's an Icelander in southern California. If he's cold, I'll dunk him in an ice bath myself."

Sanderson regarded his new coach with ongoing amusement. "You're not much of a morning person, are you?"

"No – but I've seen enough sleepovers to know that you aren't, either." He let out a long sigh. "This has definitely not been a restful trip."

"Were you expecting it to be?"

"Whatever I was expecting, believe me, _this _is not it."

As if on cue, Gunnar rolled back over and again pressed himself against Mikael's back.

Olaf raised an eyebrow at them, though his demeanor sobered noticeably. "He really does miss you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah." Mikael mellowed a little in turn. "I wish I could say I'd come back and visit more often…but I'm not making any promises."

"I know. I just think you need to be reminded once in a while. But hey, I'm up now, so you can take my bed if you want."

Mikael gazed at the empty bed wistfully, merely a handful of feet across from him. "Sorry, it's too far away. I'd rather put up with this leech right now than move."

"Suit yourself." Olaf shrugged and started walking away. Mikael's voice stopped him.

"Hey, Olaf…did you and Gunnar seriously let a backup girl goalie knock both of you off your feet? At the same time?"

"I didn't realize they had caught that on tape." The tall forward scowled at the memory. "It was a cheap shot. She got ejected for it anyway, so it doesn't matter."

"I think it does. Letting her play back then wouldn't have changed the outcome of the game, but it would be nice to know right now whether or not she's any good. I mean, you guys dominated their starting goalie last time. What if they try putting her in again? We don't know anything about how to play her."

Olaf's reply was somewhat less than helpful. "Hey, you're the coach; it's your job to worry about stuff like that now."

**Author's End Note: **Always a sucker for some fluff, I am, and these boys are not exempt. Next up, we finally arrive at Part 1 of the Championship. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership or profit on my part, never fear.

**A Surprising Substitution**

**Chapter 3**

The final straw came when he opened his eyes a second time to find Gunnar's arm draped carelessly across his chest. Then it was _definitely_ time to get up – for both of them. Mikael made sure his brother's waking was as startlingly unpleasant as his own had been.

"What's your problem?" groused Gunnar when he was conscious. "And what were you doing in my bed anyway?"

For a handful of seconds, Mikael just stared at his brother. "Are you really such a heavy sleeper that you never noticed I was here with you all night? Good grief, you are going to be in so much trouble when you start drinking. I woke up with you hanging all over me, and you didn't even realize it – all without any help from alcohol."

"Sorry, I must have been dreaming you were someone pretty."

The only thing that protected a smirking Gunnar Stahl from more serious bodily harm in the subsequent moments was the fact that his new coach needed him well enough to play hockey in about eight hours.

There was no formal practice the same day as the Championship, but Mikael still brought the team together for one last meeting in order to reveal his findings from the previous night. He attempted to keep the information practical by explaining how he would personally try to take advantage of the weaknesses he had seen if he was the one playing. They took it well, considering he was throwing a lot of information at them all at once.

But as the players cleared out to start heading over to the stadium, Mikael held Olaf back to talk with him alone. He even nodded for Gunnar to depart with the others.

"Am I in trouble already?" Sanderson joked after the rest of the team had left. "The game hasn't even started yet, so that's a new record for me."

Mikael shook his head, already feeling a bit exasperated. "No, not yet, but we still need to talk. All right, listen, we both know how Wolf likes you to play – but I'm not Wolf."

The blonde teen rolled his eyes, now that he understood the purpose of this conversation. He even made to walk past his coach out into the hall, but Mikael stopped him with an unyielding grasp on his arm.

"Now wait, just hear me out before you go start a mutiny. I'm not necessarily asking you to hold back; I just want you to be smart. Please? I need you on the ice, not in the box; or even worse, out of the game completely. So go ahead and hit people, hit them as hard as you can. But can you try to keep it legal for me? Or at least questionable? The refs will already be watching you for anything flagrant. And I just spent all night watching the tapes myself, so don't even bother trying to plead your innocence."

The inner battle was evident on Olaf's face until he finally acknowledged, "Okay, fine, I'll _try_. But just like you, I'm 'not making any promises'."

Mikael released his arm. "That's good enough for me. Portman will be back in the game tonight, so he ought to keep you occupied. You can probably get away with more if you focus your efforts on someone your own size, whereas the smaller kids may get the refs siding with them out of sheer pity. Now come on, let's go catch up with the others."

Stahl grabbed his own team sweatshirt, and they were off. Sanderson cast another sidelong glance in his direction as they walked along.

"Are you going to wear that same hoodie during the Championship?"

"Probably." The older Icelander shrugged. "It's the only long-sleeved shirt I brought for a summer trip to Los Angeles. Can you blame me? I was planning to attend the Championship, but I didn't realize I'd be spending quite this much time on the ice."

"Or maybe you just want to rub it in Wolf's face that a handball player is coaching his precious hockey team. He probably has a suit jacket you could borrow for tonight."

Mikael made a face. "No, thank you. I'd much rather stay comfortable and be able to think clearly."

"Says the man who's going to wear rented skates through the entire match?"

A look of genuine sorrow flashed across his coach's face. "I do miss my own skates. But again, how was I to know that I'd need them? I'll use blade guards on when I'm on the bench, but wearing skates will help me stay focused on the game. And besides that, I don't like the idea of you kids all being taller than me."

Olaf chuckled. "I suppose you want to preserve the natural order of things, huh? The pecking order?"

"Precisely. Especially if we're going to be on TV."

The chuckling transformed into a burst of sudden laughter. "I just realized your parents are going to freak out when they see you on the bench with us tonight. Do they even know you're in Los Angeles?"

Mikael shook his head, grinning in turn. "No, they do not. It'll be quite the surprise for them, don't you think?"

* * *

><p>Both teams went through their warm-up routines on the Arrowhead Stadium ice prior to the long-awaited Championship; both coaches then gathered their players around the bench for pep-talks before the dropping of the first puck.<p>

"All right, guys," began Mikael. "I don't know how Wolf usually gets you started; but before anything else, I want you to just stop, look around, and take this all in. You're playing in the world championship for your age group, which is no small feat. I won't even tell Wolf if you allow yourselves a quick smile to appreciate the moment. And keep in mind, you're not just representing your country here; you represent your teammates, your schools, your families…everything that's home. 'Iceland' on three."

After the customary team cheer, Gunnar remarked, "That was awfully patriotic coming from someone who fled the country at his earliest opportunity."

Mikael rolled his eyes. "Is that really all you got out of my moving little speech?"

"I'm just saying it's kind of ironic." Gunnar donned his best innocent face, and his brother smacked him on the helmet for it.

"Oh, be quiet. Just get out there and play like we all know you can. Remember, Wolf will be watching."

The Dentist himself couldn't have asked for a better start from his team. Within a few short minutes, Gunnar and Portman were already hounding one another, and Sanderson scored on a wrap-around shot to put the Vikings up one to nothing.

Bombay sought to respond by putting the inventor of the knuckle-puck, Russ Tyler, into the game; but the Icelanders reacted by swarming him with three defenders as soon as his skates touched the ice, exactly like Wolf had instructed them to do. Even so, Tyler managed to get open long enough to tee up his dangerous shot. Marria imagined Wolf suffering an aneurism as he watched from afar, until Gunnar suddenly threw himself bodily in front of number fifty-six to dislodge the puck and put an abrupt end to the shot. Even Mikael couldn't help feeling rather proud of his brother's reckless devotion on that play.

Uberjavik then snagged the stray puck, advancing it down toward Team USA's net. Once across the blue line, he let the puck fall back behind him to where Olaf was waiting for it, and the taller teen passed it off to his teammate Vries on the Vikings' signature fake move. Again the maneuver was a success, with Vries' goal increasing Iceland's lead to two.

One surprise from Team USA early on was that a previously-injured Adam Banks had returned to the lineup. When the talented American stepped in for the first time, Sanderson was on him in a heartbeat, no doubt anxious to pick up where their last encounter had so violently ended. Banks quickly took control of the puck and brought it straight up the center, in spite of his relentless Icelandic shadow. Yet when the smaller teen tried to spin away, Olaf simply lowered his shoulder and sent Adam sprawling flat on his stomach instead. The officials allowed the contact to pass without a penalty, despite the chorus of protests emanating from the American bench, and play continued.

When Sanderson next returned to his own team for a breather, Mikael greeted him with an approving smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you. I could tell you wanted to do much worse."

Olaf shrugged off the commendation. "Whatever, just don't get all mushy on me. That's what you have Gunnar for."

Meanwhile, back on the ice, Robertson was trying a little too hard to make something happen for Team USA all on his own. The cowboy's dizzying moves only took him so far before a couple of Vikings sandwiched him, freeing the puck. Amssalik grabbed it, and there wasn't a single soul standing between him and Goldberg. Normally that would be considered a breakaway opportunity, but with Mendoza on the ice at the same time, it was more of a race.

Although the American speedster was able to draw even with Amssalik across the far blue line, he could do nothing but trip his opponent in a last, desperate effort to prevent the goal. It wasn't enough. Both skaters fell in a tangled heap of limbs, and their momentum carried them into the net, along with the goalie and the puck. It certainly wasn't pretty, but the goal counted.

Now trailing by three, Bombay called for the Flying V – only to be thwarted again when the Vikings responded with a defensive V of their own. All five American players were knocked down, resulting in a ridiculously easy goal for Olaf off a pass from Gunnar. Team Iceland now led four to zero, all just within the first period! Things had rapidly gone from bad to worse for the Americans, and so far, it appeared they had no answer to counteract Stansson's well-established game plan.

The Bash Brothers came out on a veritable rampage to start the second period. Gustav still got off a good shot, which Goldberg saved. Ken Wu then brought the puck back onto Iceland's side of the rink and scored Team USA's first goal of the night after executing a figure-skating jump to evade defenders, cutting the deficit back down to three points. Elated to finally have something substantial to cheer about, the predominantly-American crowd celebrated the goal with uncommon enthusiasm. Little Ken himself even picked a fight with Wiesel, the Viking goalie, causing far more embarrassment than harm for the Icelander before the refs finally drew them apart.

In hindsight, Mikael would readily admit after the match that this was where things had started spiraling out of control.

Inspired by Ken's show of bravado, the Bashes put on yet another wild display, and the crowd fed off of their exuberance. The two biggest Americans even went so far as to skate right in front of the Viking bench, knocking blonde heads together as they went past. Letting one of them get away with it was bad enough, but Mikael wasn't about to let it happen twice. No one messed with his team like that – even if the team had only been "his" for two days.

Without giving a second's worth of consideration for what the referees or spectating parents might think, he lashed out with one arm and grappled the second Bash Brother to go by. Portman would have hit the ice hard if not for Mikael's iron grip on his shoulder pads.

"Hey! Don't make me come out there." The fierce look in Mikael's eyes proved his threat was hardly empty.

But before a stunned Portman could decide how to react to that, the officials were prying him free of the Icelander's grip. All provocations considered, the referees couldn't get too upset with Mikael, although they still issued a stern warning to remind him that he was not, in fact, allowed to make physical contact with players on the ice. The Bash Brothers, meanwhile, were ushered into the penalty box alongside Wu.

Play resumed as normally as possible after such a bizarre interruption, and Mikael paced behind his players with far too much pent-up energy.

"Olaf, go hit someone for me!"

Sanderson jumped up from where he sat on the bench, grinning and eager to comply. "You still want me to keep it legal?"

His coach drew a visibly deep breath. "As much as you can bear to, please."

Unfortunately, the Vikings' top enforcer selected Connie Moreau as his next target. She was enough of a scoring threat to warrant the extra attention, but now she could scarcely regain her balance before he was knocking her off her feet yet again. It was as though he'd forgotten about every other player on the ice. When Olaf lined Moreau up for a full check, however, Robertson leapt off his own bench and literally lassoed the Icelander in order to protect his petite teammate.

Looking on, Mikael hid his eyes behind his hands for a moment, too disgusted with the whole affair to watch Olaf extricate himself from the rope. Who the hell kept a rope on-hand during a hockey match, anyway? All the same, his words weren't exactly sympathetic when his brother's best friend returned to the bench.

"Yeah, you were pretty much asking for that."

Sanderson glared back at him, his cheeks still burning with humiliation. "I didn't do anything against the rules, just like you asked. If she's going to cry every time she gets hit, she shouldn't play hockey," he growled.

"I agree. All things are equal out on the ice, and she shouldn't expect any special treatment just because she's a girl. But in all fairness, you did kind of make yourself out to be the villain here. No wonder someone came swooping down to rescue the damsel in distress." The young coach's tone darkened. "I'd have strangled the kid myself, though, if that rope had ended up around your neck. I can't believe they didn't throw him out."

Not soon enough, the second period came to a close, with the score still standing at four to one in favor of the Vikings. While Coach Bombay addressed his players on the subject of pride during the break, Mikael was about to put his own spin on the matter.

"Bloody refs have lost all control of this game!" he exclaimed in angry frustration once his team was behind closed doors. "God knows what they'll let slide before the end. Any idea where a coach can register a formal complaint?"

"I don't know about that," answered Amssalik, "but I wish you had left the bench to finish the job with that Bash Brother. That by itself would have been worth the trip here!"

"Yeah, but then what?" challenged Gustav. "At the very least, he would have been thrown out of the game."

The taller teen shrugged. "Coach still would have been proud."

"Proud?" Mikael scoffed. "If Wolf hadn't survived that surgery, he'd be rolling over in his grave right now. I mean, come on, a freaking figure skater? Have you no pride? That kid tried the same stunt last time around, and you stopped him dead on his skates. Which brings me to the first change I want to make going forward. Gunnar, Olaf – great job out there, but now I'm putting both of you permanently on defense. I'm not too worried about offense, but so help me, we are _not _going to blow this lead! We'll beat them the same way Russia beat you: by getting a big lead and then digging in deep defensively."

His players responded with grim nods of comprehension.

"Now, we should expect them to come out with a lot of energy to start off the third period, even if it's just a final act of desperation; so we've got to stay focused and weather the storm, whatever that may look like. Don't let them get into your head. Just maintain discipline and keep doing what's worked for us all game long. And remember, if we win, Wolf owes me big; but if we lose, he'll probably kill me as soon as he can walk again – if not before. So please don't lose."

As the rest of their teammates began filing out to return to the ice, Gunnar and Olaf hung back to catch a moment alone with Mikael.

"You don't seriously want us to stay back the entire period, do you?" protested Gunnar.

"Yes, I do," his brother confirmed, not yielding an inch in the resolution. "You two have had your time in the spotlight. Your teammates can handle things well enough on offense from now on, but I don't want to see either of you on the American side of the ice again for the rest of the night. So get back there and stay back there – or else."

"Or else what?" Sanderson prompted.

"Or else I'll take a few shots at your heads myself!" Mikael called back as he walked on ahead, leaving his two best players to tag along behind him.

Olaf leaned over to his friend as they followed their coach back toward the rink and whispered, "Do you think he means with a puck or with a handball?"

"Either way, I don't think it would be very much fun for us."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: **Having a surrogate coach changes many things, as the Vikings are about to find out. AU for MD2. No romance this time, just a lot of fun with the boys from Iceland. Not related to my previous fics, but still featuring my OMC, Mikael Stahl. Rating for some language. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **No ownership or profit on my part, never fear.

**Author's Note: **Since I am by no means a hockey expert, I did some research into overtime/shootout rules to explore what my options might be for concluding this little story. What I learned, in short, was that our beloved MD2 really doesn't follow the rules at all. At least, not the current NHL rules. To give Disney the benefit of the doubt, maybe the rules are different in Olympic/Tournament play. But at any rate, to make my own story adhere to the proper rules, I would have to totally reconstruct everything from scratch. Instead, I chose to grit my teeth and more or less stick with Disney's original layout. So please forgive the hockey inaccuracies to follow, and I hope you can enjoy this final chapter regardless.

**A Surprising Substitution**

**Chapter 4**

No matter how strange the Championship had been during the first two periods of play, no one would have expected Team USA to rally around a Duck mascot at the start of the third. Multiple Viking players sent conspicuous glances at the Americans' new dazzling white uniforms, and Mikael couldn't blame them.

"I guess they're willing to try anything at this point," he commented to Marria while the teams were warming up.

The teens again mustered around their benches, and Mikael made a shameless face as "quacking" broke out all across the arena. He motioned his players in closer, having to raise his voice for them to hear even at such a short distance.

"Okay, be honest, how many of you ever had fun scaring and chasing the ducks around Tjornin Pond when you were younger? Or maybe you still do today?"

More than a few reluctant nods answered him, and he grinned.

"Good, because I've got some more Ducks here for you now. They may be wearing new feathers, but they're the same old chickens underneath. Go make them squawk. Hands in, 'Tjornin' on three."

After the boys had dispersed, Marria smiled and shook her head at Mikael's approach. The young man wasn't nearly as intense as Wolf would have been in this situation, but he had put his team at ease with the familiar reference to Reykjavik's landmark and even made them laugh a little in the process.

The Vikings did indeed stand firm through Team USA's initial onslaught, Queen classics included. Gustav even scored the first goal of the period, which temporarily diffused the energy of the home crowd. With his team now up five points to one, Mikael had to confess things looked promising.

Gunnar and Olaf were doing a spectacular job on defense, as expected, but even they were only human and still needed to come out to rest on occasion. At times like these, the Ducks collectively put forth their best efforts, and Moreau scored off an assist from Germaine the first time Stahl and Sanderson sat down. So back out they went in a hurry.

"I'll say it again, we need clones of you two!" Mikael shouted after them.

The Championship had truly become a battle of enforcers, now that Gunnar and Olaf were unashamedly dedicated to defense, and the Bash Brothers were constantly going after them in an attempt to clear the way for America's scorers. Utilizing their coach's tips from earlier that morning, the Vikings did a fairly good job of keep Reed off-balance. Portman, however, was an entirely different matter, and he seemed quite happy to concentrate his aggression on the tournament's leading scorer. There was one check in particular that made Mikael wince when he saw it. It had been a clean hit, but Mikael didn't care much for the angle at which his brother's upper body had made contact with the glass. And although Gunnar got up from it right away and skated on, something about his stance after that suggested he was favoring his right shoulder.

The Americans' desperation led them to new depths of creativity, and so their next goal came as a result of Robertson flipping the puck up over the heads of many surprised Vikings. It landed right in front of Banks who deftly tapped it in, making the score five to three.

"It's like they don't even know how to play hockey," Mikael muttered, running his hands through his hair in exasperation. "They just show up with a bag full of tricks!"

To make matters worse, he could no longer ignore how Gunnar's physicality and effectiveness had dropped off dramatically since sustaining that big hit from Portman. A healthy Gunnar Stahl would have been far more involved in trying to stop America's last goal, as he had demonstrated back in the first period. He would have to come out, plain and simple.

Uttering a more creative curse in German and hoping the young Icelanders around him wouldn't understand, Mikael called for another rotation. But when Gunnar rose with Olaf to return to the ice a few minutes later, Mikael stopped him with a hand on his good shoulder, nodding for Weyden to go on instead.

"Sit down," he said gravely. "You're done for tonight."

His brother's blue eyes flashed with defensive anger. "What are you talking about?"

"You're hurt," Mikael replied, making a smooth transition to speak in German.

Gunnar did the same, though he still lowered his voice for privacy's sake. Surprisingly, or perhaps alarmingly, he didn't waste time trying to deny the injury. "You've played through worse yourself."

"Yes, but _my _coach didn't know about it at the time. Now sit down."

Gunnar just gaped at him for a moment, speechless and fuming, before finally resuming his seat. Anxiety rose palpably as the other Vikings observed the benching of their star captain, and there wasn't much Mikael could say or do to alleviate their concerns.

It likewise didn't help that Mendoza had claimed the puck and was now on a breakaway. Olaf had been on Iceland's side of the rink like he was supposed to be; but he had been too far forward, and there simply wasn't time for him to react when the speedster went flying past him. And then, in perhaps the greatest surprise of the tournament, Mendoza stopped. It appeared he had gotten his brakes fixed after all, at least for the time being. Even Mikael, who knew a good bit of skating when he saw it, had to admit it was an impressive display. Olaf eventually bowled over the American from behind, but his efforts came far too late. The puck was already in the net, and Iceland's lead had shrunk to just one goal.

"How did things go so bad so quickly?" Mikael groaned to express his mounting angst. "It's killing me not to be out there myself right now."

"Good, at least you know how I feel," muttered Gunnar dejectedly.

Two minutes now remained in what had become quite an exhilarating Championship. Tyler came out onto the ice again, and still the Vikings were all over him. No doubt seeing the futility of that approach, Bombay called for his team's final timeout.

"When fifty-six is out there, do whatever you have to do to stop him from getting his shot off," Mikael exhorted his defenders. "I don't even care what that is, as long as it doesn't give them a penalty shot. But remember, you're no help to anyone if you're off the ice in the box. Less than two minutes more, boys, hang in there. It's almost over."

Some form of trickery would have been expected, especially in light of all that had happened during the previous eighteen minutes. But a jersey switch? Nobody saw that coming. Tyler had _somehow _put on the goalie's gear and jersey during the timeout, without anyone noticing. Then, from behind the obscurity of his new disguise, he was at last able to send a dreaded knuckle-puck at Iceland's goal. Wiesel did his best to block the erratic shot, but to no avail. And so the score was tied at five apiece.

While fans and Duck players alike exploded with ecstasy during the aftermath, Mikael was nothing short of livid as he argued with the refs. "You're kidding me! How is that possibly legal? There's got to be some kind of rule against hiding a player like that!"

Sadly, his pleas proved ineffectual, and the Championship progressed to a shootout. Both coaches were charged to select five players from their team who would shoot one-on-one against the opposing goalie. Mikael chose his team's first four representatives with ease, including Olaf and Gustav, yet he wavered on naming his final selection.

"Come on, Mikael, you have to let me shoot!" Gunnar begged, desperate for his own chance to contribute. "No one's going to hit me now; I'll be fine."

The elder Stahl was empathetic but still hesitant as he replied, "It's a shoulder injury; even if you play through the pain, your strength and accuracy will still be compromised."

"I can manage through one shot, I'm sure of it. Just let me out there, and I swear I won't let you guys down. Please, Mikael."

Gunnar could see his entreating was having the desired effects. His brother finally gave in with great reluctance, not to mention against his better judgment. "All right, you'll be up last. If we're really lucky, maybe you won't even need to shoot. Just be smart and stay away from your usual slap-shot or anything else that requires a lot of power behind it. You'll have to get up close to the net and try to pull off something clever."

"Then that's what I'll do, I promise." Of course, Gunnar probably would have agreed to anything at that point.

Ultimately, luck did not favor the Vikings during the shootout; and as the last player to come out for either team, Gunnar needed to make his shot just to keep the score even. If he could do so, it would force a second shootout.

Mikael had seen enough tapes the previous night to know that Greg Goldberg was faster stick-side. He also knew that Gunnar preferred to shoot glove-side, which made it seem like a favorable matchup. But when Julie Gaffney skated out to defend the shot instead, Mikael suddenly deduced in a single, paradigm-shattering moment that the backup goalie must have a faster glove. The complimentary strengths made sense. And who else on Team Iceland would Coach Bombay have chosen to study more closely than Gunnar Stahl?

"Gunnar! Gunnar!"

It was the closest Mikael had been to panicking all night long. He leaned forward and shouted his brother's name again, unable to do more than hope that Gunnar would hear him over the hordes of screaming fans. He did hear. Before reaching center ice, Gunnar slowed and turned around to face his team, letting himself drift backward the rest of the way.

"Gunnar, go stick-side!" Mikael called out urgently in Icelandic. "Stick-side!" It was all he could do; if he started gesturing, it would tip off the goalie.

But Gunnar nodded – a short, single nod to show he understood. He accepted the puck and deliberately moved it forward; but due to the increasing pain and stiffness in his shoulder, didn't do anything fancy until he was right up on the net. Then he executed a couple of quick, well-practiced moves that faked Gaffney into shifting her weight glove-side; but at the last moment, Gunnar adjusted the angle of his shot and flipped it into the net over her stick. And so they were tied again.

While the rest of the stadium seemed a bit deflated after that shot, Team Iceland's bench abounded with energy and cheers. Mikael wrapped his arms around Gunnar's neck in a quick hug when his sibling returned to the bench, trying with only moderate success to be gentle in the contact.

Smiling wide, he proudly whispered into Gunnar's ear, "Good shot, little brother! How do you feel?"

"Like I probably shouldn't do that again." While Gunnar's smile mirrored his brother's, his face had become noticeably paler than usual. The pain of his injury was really affecting him now after that exertion.

Mikael gave his nape a quick squeeze. "Don't worry, I highly doubt we'll make it that far. Now sit back down and take it easy. You've done your part."

Goldberg went back in again to replace Gaffney, and now the coaches needed another five players to go through the same routine all over again. Since there couldn't be any repeat shooters, Mikael soon reached the point of choosing boys he did not personally know; it was the best he could do to simply pick those whom he understood to primarily be forwards.

This time, Team Iceland was first to shoot, and the shootout score was still tied as it came down to the last two shooters. Vries was the last player to go out for the Vikings. His maneuver had Goldberg fooled, but his shot was slightly off the mark, and it hit the goalpost. Had it been a fraction of an inch farther to the left, the puck would have bounced into the net rather than ricocheting wide.

As a result, the Ducks had a chance to win it all with Tyler up last to shoot. Accuracy for the knuckle-puck must be difficult to maintain, which was probably why Bombay hadn't included Tyler in his first five shooters. If Mikael had been a nail-biter, his fingertips probably would have been bloody by now; he knew that unless Tyler missed the goal of his own accord, this would likely be the end of the Championship. And so it happened. Wiesel managed to nick the shot with his glove, but the puck skipped over his hand and continued on into the net.

Both final shots had been so painfully close! And yet the gods of minute distances had smiled upon Team USA, and the knuckle-puck heroically propelled the Ducks to victory.

Gunnar rose to his feet on the Viking bench, disappointed but already resigned to the game's outcome. "Come on," he urged his friends, "let's go shake their hands."

"Where did you ever learn to be such a good sport?"

Nevertheless, Mikael and the other Vikings followed him willingly; all along, Gunnar kept his right arm close to his chest, immobile. He specifically congratulated Conway, who appeared to have sat out the game while remaining actively involved on the bench.

"Great job tonight," Bombay said to Mikael with full sincerity. "You had me worried from start to finish. So do you think we'll see you coaching here again?"

The Icelander could only manage a half-hearted smile in reply, shaking his head. "Maybe twenty years from now when my body starts falling apart – but not a day sooner. Until then, I can't stand just watching when I know I can still play."

"I can certainly respect that," Gordon replied. "Still, you handled your strong-willed team very well. And I'm guessing you out-coached me during your brother's shot, too. I thought for sure Julie was finally going to have her big moment here tonight."

"Under different circumstances, she probably would have. But all the same, I can't feel too sorry for her – not when she and her teammates get to go home with a gold medal."

The two coaches shook hands to formally conclude matters and then parted. Gustav joined Mikael as their team was leaving the ice, his face downcast. "You can't be any happier with all of this than the rest of us are."

"Of course not. There are a hundred little things that might have made a difference in the end, but what's done is done. We can't change it now. I'm more worried about how unhappy your real coach is going to be." He hoped Wolf wouldn't hold the loss against his players, though; they had all given their best for the entire match, even if it hadn't been a perfect performance.

Back in the locker room, Gunnar needed help removing the layers of gear and clothing he wore so that Marria could finally give his injured shoulder a thorough examination. The boys were a subdued bunch now, to be sure, and soon all but a handful of them had returned to their dorms for the night. Despite seeing the way his brother kept grimacing under Marria's treatment, Mikael deemed that things were adequately under control here. In which case, he really couldn't put off the inevitable any longer.

"Well, I'm off to visit Wolf in the hospital now," he announced somberly. "It's time for me to give an account for my life. Gunnar, give my love to Mom and Dad; you know, just in case I never see them again."

Olaf called over, "Don't worry, Mikael, Coach is still practically an invalid coming off that surgery. You can handle him."

But as soon as his older friend had left the locker room, Sanderson's carefree smile faded. "God, I'd hate to be in his shoes right now. Sorry, Gunnar, but I kind of hope Coach will take the worst of it out on him, before getting to the rest of us."

Mikael wasn't actually afraid to face Wolf, of course, but no more could he fool himself into thinking that this would be a pleasant encounter. Stansson's welcoming words as his former player stepped into the hospital room shortly thereafter were not unexpected.

"Why did you pull your brother? I can understand putting him on defense when you did, but why would you sit him for the last ten minutes? That foolishness opened the door for the Americans to come back and tie! He was playing an excellent game."

Mikael let the verbal maelstrom wash over him before simply stating, "He was hurt, Wolf."

"He was still skating strong; you, of all people, should have seen that."

"It was a shoulder injury, which you _will _see if you go back and watch the tape. Even if I had left him in, he wouldn't have been playing at a high level."

"You let him participate in the shootout," the older man accused.

"Yes, and I probably shouldn't have. He can be very persuasive when he wants to be, but he barely made it through the shot. And no offense, but I'm more afraid of facing my mother's wrath than yours. I'd never be able to look her in the eye again if I let my baby brother hurt himself even worse."

While Wolf didn't stop sulking after that, his temper did appear to quiet down somewhat. "How bad is it?"

"Just a sprain, although Marria says he's lucky it wasn't separated. You should have him back as good as new in about three weeks."

"Too little, too late."

Mikael dragged a chair over to sit by Wolf's bedside, then leaned over with his head resting in hands. He felt thoroughly worn out, lamenting, "Now I need a vacation from my vacation. Wolf, how do you deal with a bunch of teenagers day after day without strangling someone? Hell, how did you deal with _me_ for as long as you did?"

"Truthfully?" Stansson almost smiled. "Half the time I did want to strangle you. Compared to you, Gunnar is a quiet, compliant child. So if he is your mother's favorite, I can hardly blame her. You had a talent for listening to me on the bench and then doing the exact opposite on the ice. Worst of all, your instincts out there were usually right – which is why I wanted you to coach for me tonight."

"I'm sorry it didn't turn out the way we all would have wanted." Mikael could be genuine about that, at the very least. "Do you regret recruiting me as your replacement now?"

Wolf sighed. "No. I don't imagine anyone else on the continent could have done a better job in so short a time; and if nothing else, I must say you did give the world a dramatic finish. Your own personal touch, I'm sure."

Stahl couldn't help laughing a little. "Yes, that all happened exactly as I'd planned it: losing in a double shootout by a matter of centimeters. They came up with some creative plays, as you saw, but I still don't understand how some of that shit was legal."

"Personally, I never got along well with the officials when I was a player, but my dislike of them only grew after I started coaching," Stansson empathized. "So now will you go back to the boys, or would you rather stay here in the quiet for a while?"

"Actually, I think I might take myself out for a relaxing, teenager-free drink instead. I'll check on Gunnar again in the morning, but right now, I'd like to try and salvage something out of my Saturday night."

Wolf nodded in understanding and gladly waved him on his way. "Have one for me, too."

**Author's End Note: **An alternate ending would be to say that Vries' shot sneaks in, and Russ's shot is the one to go wide of the mark. After all, he himself does say that it's "hard to be accurate" with the knuckle-puck. I would typically prefer such an ending myself, but I realized it added more significance to Mikael's meeting with Wolf if the Vikings had lost. So there you go. Thanks for reading, everyone, and I hope you had as much fun with the boys in this fic as I did!


End file.
